2001-11-11 :: 10:57 p.m.
the winter is my discontent
Soundtrack: The White Stripes, White Blood Cells
We-hell, I had to write on the 11th, so here we are. I only realized the true extent of my lack of web infatuation when I came across this:
-rw-rw-r-- 1 jordan jordan 132568 Oct 1 13:40 ideas
What does that mean? It means that for over a month, nothing made me want to add to that file (which is sort of like my private blog, you could say, the digital notebook that I refer to on occasion). That, or I've simply not had the time. Some of both, right? Always a bit of both, yin, yang, balance, self-help books, etc.
Perhaps it's some consolation to know that I'm not alone in my discontent. Perhaps better still to know that some hold fast to the relationship, but they too have their doubts. It is indeed that "time of the year." It is the time of year when we Internet people hibernate, pretend to hibernate, or trick ourselves into thinking we are hibernating when really we're just talking about it (that's not clever at all). This is getting cryptic; I'll stop now.
Oh, but there are nice moments on the web. I visited Bobby (everyone in old Dland is on a first name basis with Bobby, even we who barely know him), and noted his title: "The latest technology at the lowest prices!" I thought to myself: That must be from some spam. Not a moment later did this appear in my inbox:
buy.com The latest technology at the lowest prices!
And then you stumble on a bit of the past, half-forgotten (or are we pretending again?) but still there, still reminding you that someone remembers, some neurons somewhere are dedicated to preserving fragments of a moment to which you belong.
Kathryn (12:54:11 AM): i think deep down maybe i am a newborn puppy. who wants to fall asleep to the ticking of the clock. because it sounds like mom.
Jordan (12:55:31 AM): i like that idea. a lot.
Those are the moments I think all writers seek1, the moment of storage, the moment that we believe to represent a bit of longevity. If I can give birth to enough words in this fucking whirlwind burnout, maybe some will stick somewhere for a little longer than my sack of guts and bones will. Now there's a pleasant thought.
I could use a pleasant thought right around now. Things are kind of in the dumpster. I don't think it's too much to ask out of life to offer you more than emulated Nintendo and the possibility of sleep. Things like clean laundry and a schedule that wasn't buried in makeup work. Things that are worth the $30,000/year being paid out in my name. I am living for the future, and I hate it. I wasn't supposed to be doing this. The sad part is, I don't know how to stop.
Forget all of that. This is what's really important to me right now: When your own blood sheds tears, that hurts. It really hurts. We are the good ones. Hello! When will you fuckers in the rest of the world catch up?
1���All writers is probably wrong. I should probably say many writers, but that sounds weak. Truth be told, some writers have little desire for longevity -- or so they claim. Nick Hornby comes to mind. I'm just exposing my own biases and motivations.
Some rare additional commentary on the entry title:
I was doing a Google search to see who coined the oft-quoted phrase "the winter of my discontent", and found that Sars already used my title for an entry of hers. She's worth copying, so I ain't changing it. Naturally, the popular quote is from Shakespeare (what isn't?), and I got it slightly wrong. Note how my error turns up a lot of goth-style pages and poetry. Haha.
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